Page 52 of Arresting the Hockey Player
There's a pounding at the front door, and Noah's resolve crumbles. He takes a step back, and I use the opportunity to flee.
I yank the door open, and one police officer pulls us out of the way and practically pushes us down the hallway toward the elevator while two more officers rush inside to apprehend Noah.
A moment later, Noah is in handcuffs. All the air is sucked from my lungs. My stomach is in my throat. I manage to keep down the beer that I had earlier, but I'm not sure how.
I'm shaking, the little boy is crying, and I don’t know how any of this happened.
"Are you the boy's mother?" the male officer asks.
"No, I'm a friend of Noah's."
"When you called 9-1-1, you mentioned that you were his girlfriend?" he asks. He flips open his notepad, jotting something down. "What's the little boy's name?"
I shake my head. "I don't… I didn't even know he had a son until tonight."
"I think it would be good if you came down to the station and gave your statement while we work on locating the boy's mother."
TWELVE
Noah
"I need to be with my son! You don't understand what's happened."
"Daddy hit me," Zayn repeats like it's the only sentence the kid knows how to say. It's also fucking incriminating because I just told Charlotte I'm the little boy's father.
I get how it looks, but she ought to know me well enough to realize that I wouldn't hurt a child.
"Where are you taking my son?" I shout at the officers who escort Charlotte and Zayn to the elevator outside.
Meanwhile, I'm in handcuffs and being forced to watch the two of them leave.
"So, you admit you're the boy's father?" the officer with a funny mustache asks, glancing me over.
"I only found out about Zayn less than a week ago."
"Where's the mother?" the other officer asks. Thankfully, her gun is in its holster because she looks ready to shoot me.
"I would guess she went home to her abusive husband, Grant Brass."
"Quite an allegation coming from a child abuser," the female officer says, reading me my Miranda Rights as she escorts me to the elevator.
"I didn't hit my son.”
“Sure, it was his other daddy.” The officer laughs as he grabs my arm and yanks me to follow.
“The kid doesn't even know me. He's referring to Grant Brass." I try further explaining, but it's like talking to a brick wall.
As I'm escorted out of the building, past security and the concierge, there are a few guests in the lobby taking photos or videos with their phones.
Wonderful, this is going to be all over the news by morning. My hockey career will be dust before I even get to tell my side of the story.
Good ole' Charlotte Grace, the girl who ruined me in more ways than one.
There's no sign of Zayn or Charlotte. "Where is my son?" I ask.
The officers refuse to answer as I'm escorted to the back of a squad car. It's humiliating. But none of that matters.
I'm seated in the back, my hands in metal cuffs.
